


Stockholm Syndrome

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Straight up saccharine, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 02:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13777482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: Eames has always been able to draw Arthur, but he's never painted theimpressionof Arthur he sees in his head.  Now, with an impending four-month-long job to separate them, Eames breathes in Arthur and wishes he could keep him in Stockholm.  Even if it's just the impression of him.





	Stockholm Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks, once again, to [brookebond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/works) for taking a look at this!

Their Stockholm flat was obscenely large for just the two of them, Eames allowed. But when he wasn't looking, it had become home. The bookshelves were stuffed full of both their books, now mingled beyond reparation, with Arthur's turntable and vinyls in the place of honor in the middle. Eames' easel stood in the corner which had the best light, and there were five potted plants in the windows, whose care had somehow fallen to Eames after he picked out names for them.

"If you're going to name them things like that, you can water them," Arthur had sniffed, and Eames knew it was Arthur's way of saying " _This is something I'm not good at; please say you'll do it."_

And he did. And he always would. Ethel was his baby, in particular, but Fluffy was the one growing the best. He'd need to repot it again when he came back.

The rain splashed the windows in a relentless downpour, and Eames watched it with his hands in his pockets, one knee pressed against the old radiator. He'd been thinking about their flat, and their entangled life, for weeks now, and he knew, without question, what he wanted.

He wanted more.

He wanted forever.

Eames wanted Arthur like he wanted to breathe— it was expected, and constant, and necessary, and especially noticed when it was unavailable.

Eames turned as Arthur entered the living room, slicked-back hair, impeccable suit, and a whiff of the aftershave he wore on the job. That aftershave had taunted him for years, and here it was, haunting him again. Arthur kissed him in front of the window, with the rain running down and their plants watching, and Eames breathed him in.

He had toyed with the idea of discussing marriage. Surely that was something that couples who'd been together for over a year and known each other for a decade more would talk about. It shouldn't be something terrifying to broach, even if a negative response might mean the end of everything. But Eames didn't want to be the whinging partner— the one who needed too much, clung too tight, pushed him away. He was happy as it was. He could let it be.

They've been saying goodbye for 15 minutes now, or an hour if you counted the time in bed. But honestly, they'd been preparing to say goodbye all weekend. Arthur's job didn't need a forger, but Eames might have come along anyway if he hadn't gotten a job offer that started a week later.

"Take it," Arthur had said. "Even if you came, I might not see you. This one's going to be a stunner."

Eames had laughed and taken the job. Now though, giving Arthur one last kiss, he wondered what he'd been thinking. Four months was a long bloody time.

He had drawn thousands of sketches of Arthur over the years, done studies on his ears, and his forearms, and his cock. But Eames' favorite medium was paint, and his favorite style was abstract, and yet he'd never done an abstract painting of Arthur. That didn't mean he hadn't thought about what it would look like, though.

When he tried to capture Arthur in an image, Arthur had always been shades of cool blue and steely silver, and even black in the foreground. But further out, there had been warmer shades of deep magenta, reds, even oranges— obtainable, possibly, but so far away. As an artist, he'd thought about trying to translate that image to a canvas, and decided against it every time. As irrational as it was, the colors, the  _feel_  of it were so intimate, he couldn't bear to share it. Even if he didn't show it to anyone, the thought that the art would be out in the world, and someday some random person would look at it and say, " _Oh, that's so Elaine! I have to get this for her sitting room,"_  made him cringe. So he'd kept it, beautiful and pristine and  _his_ , his Arthur, locked in his head.

As he watched the Arthur in front of him gather his suitcase and smile at Eames as he headed out the door of their flat, Eames realized that the image he'd kept locked away for so long was no longer an accurate representation of the man he knew. Now that he was staring at Arthur's retreating back, the caring, funny, endlessly creative man he was head over heels for, he knew the warmth he saw in the image was not only obtainable but took over most of his mind's eye. Fiery reds, sunny yellows, soft pinks, even a few sexy purples, were front and center, and now it was the unaffected blues that were far away from him. The painter in him imagined sight lines and horizons and light sources and realized Arthur hadn't changed, not really. The image was rotated, and his perspective had adjusted. Or maybe, he, as the viewer, had changed his position to the light source, and now it was closer to him, behind him. But if that was the case, Eames frowned, thinking, he would see his own shadow casting over Arthur's depiction. And he didn't. His heart hurt, for a moment, wishing for exactly that, some sign he was there in Arthur's portrayal. But surely he was a part of Arthur, after all this time. Arthur loved him, he didn't doubt it. But…

"Oh," Eames breathed to the empty flat. " _I'm_ his light source."

He raced to the door and threw it open, running down the stairs to catch a surprised Arthur just reaching the front door.

"Eames? Is everything al—oof!"

Eames wrapped him in a tight embrace, nuzzling just under Arthur's ear the way he couldn't stop doing.

"I'm going to marry you someday," Eames said— a whisper, a confession, a promise.

Instead of the grim placating smile he'd dreaded, Arthur's face broke into a wide grin of delight, both dimples on display and he kissed Eames with a joyful abandon.

The driver waiting outside honked and Eames pulled back, his own wonky grin bursting out of him.

"Bye," Arthur whispered back, but it was happiness that radiated from him now, and Eames let him go, an umbrella over his head, dashing to put his suitcase in the boot the driver was holding open.

He had one week before his own job started, he thought, watching Arthur's face as his car pulled away from the curb, Arthur's fingertips pressed to the glass. It might be just enough time to finish a painting.


End file.
